Sunlight is Overrated
by Jaywing25
Summary: This is for the Newsie Pape Selling Competiton. The Vietnam war has just started and Spot is looking for a way off the streets. He finds the war to be a great opportunity and also the chance to find a life changing or ending, friend , look at it as you wish.
1. Chapter 1

**As mentioned before this is for the Newsie Pape Selling Competition. It will be a two chapter story. The word count is 1,019. **

**My prompt's**

**-Write about your Favorite Newsie ( Spot just in case, this is acknowledged more in the Second chapter) **

**-Life is tough**

The year was 1955 and the Vietnam War had started. Propaganda was in full swing and Spot Conlon was not going to be left out.

Being a newsboy since he was able to talk, Spot knew that life was tough. Better than anyone else, in fact. His future prospects were few and they all consisted of hard labor and Spot was not going to go down that path.

Spot was a natural leader. Everyone told him so, and, after all, they didn't call him the King of Brooklyn for nothing. His talents should not be wasted.

So while reading the morning edition he found a wonderful opportunity.

The military was looking for new recruits. Blinded by the chance to get off the streets, Spot raced down to City Hall, never once considering the risks of enlisting.

At City Hall there was a line full of boys just like him. All dressed in rags. Their fingers stained black either from coal or ink.

Looks like they all had the same idea.

Posters and fliers littered the floor and walls. Picking one up, Spot saw the perfect family. A mother, a father, two kids and a dog. Underneath the picture, in big white letters that contrasted against the dark blue background it said: "Protect your family!"

Spot had never had a family, or at least one that he remembered. If he died, which wasn't very likely because they all expected the war to be over just as soon as it started, no one would miss him. Perhaps the newsies would, but then they would find a new leader and forget about him.

The line started to move. In a swift motion, Spot folded the flier and stuffed it in his pocket.

They were directed to an open room where officials sat behind small white tables, manila folders at their sides.

After much confusion everyone was split in to six rows of five. When his turn came, the official kept scribbling away on what looked like a form.

"Name?"

"Spot Conlon."

"Age?"

"18."

Without questioning his liability, Spot was instructed towards a white door.

A woman dressed in a white lab coat sat near the door, a clipboard on her lap.

As he approached, the woman pulled a yellow card and held it out to him.

"Fill this out in there" was the only thing she said.

Opening the door, Spot was faced with an uncanny contrast. A wide hallway had been turned into a makeshift infirmary. Doctors and nurses walked back and forth between green curtains. Red arrows directed him towards a larger desk. Another nurse sat behind it typing away on a typewriter. There was a line of boys using each other's back to write out their information. A short boy Spot had never seen before turned around and handed him a pen

"e're you go. You can use my back if you want."

It was hard to understand him due to what Spot guessed was an Italian accent but he got what he meant.

"That's all right. I'll use my hand." Spot said, holding out his palm in front of him and writing out his name, age, and birth date.

"Suit yourself. Name's Carlos but my friends call me Racetrack."

Spot's eye's widened. "Newsie?"

The Italian smiled, and spit in his hand holding it out to Spot.

Mirroring him, the two boys shook hands.

"Spot Conlon. Brooklyn."

The Italian stepped back, while wiping his hand on his pants.

"The Spot Conlon?" he nodded.

"I'll be darned." Racetrack said, swiping a hand over his forehead.

"We hear all sorta of stuff in Manhattan about you. Now, why on earth would someone like you give up the great throne of Brooklyn?" Racetrack crossed his arms and looked at Spot as if he had just told him he set fire to the White House and joined a traveling circus as the bearded lady.

Spot shrugged and answered, "I don't know seemed better than living on the streets."

The Italian newsie still looked unimpressed. "Yes, because enlisting in the army and risking getting shot is better than the streets."

Scowling and also crossing his arms, Spot responded. "Look, it not going to affect you in any way if I die. So, why do you care?"

Racetrack took a step back and held up his arms in surrender. "Don't get all hissy with me. I just don't see why anyone would want to leave at their prime."

With a frown, Spot relaxed. "I was getting to old to sell. You don't make the same amount of money at my age."

Racetrack nodded but Spot could tell he still wasn't convinced. "How old exactly are you?"

Almost saying sixteen, Spot corrected himself. "Eighteen, same as you."

And with that, an unspoken agreement was made. Manhattan and Brooklyn might not be on the same terms they used to be but no matter how bad relations were, no newsies ever turned on each other against the higher power.

"Yeah, and so is everybody else."

Spot turned around and saw a tall blonde boy. A bandana was tied around his neck.

"Jack? What are you doing here?"

Spot knew Jack and Jack knew Spot. Brooklyn might have nothing to do with Manhattan now but it was unavoidable for the two leaders not to know each other.

Somewhere along the line, a borough war happened between Manhattan and Brooklyn. No one knew why or how but one thing was for sure, Brooklyn and Manhattan no longer talked and they might not ever. Alliance attempts had been made but they never amounted to anything, not to mention how something would always go terribly wrong for both boroughs when they tried.

Before either boy could get another word in, the nurse called out them, asking for their cards. Spot realized that if he passed the health test, which he was sure he would, there was no going back on his decision to join the army. Leaving was better than staying. If he died, they might put his name on a memorial stone and that way he would never be forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

**PHEW! YOU GUYS HAVE NO IDEA HOW HARD IT WAS TO UPLOAD THIS! FOR MY TEAM I'M SORRY IF YOU WERE WORRIED BUT ITS HERE NOW! OH AND THE WORD COUNT IS 3,337 (ITS A LONG ONE)**

Boot camp was a quick flash in the bigger picture that was his life. They were landing off the Mu Gia pass. The infantry was traveling on foot 100 miles south to a disclosed location. Where they would await directions.

They had flown most of the way, but due to enemy fire, they were forced to land on a warship that would take them to shore. Seasickness was an epidemic amongst most of the soldiers, except for Spot. He had fared quite well compared to his peers. Since nearly everyone was useless, Spot was forced to run petty errands for his commanding officers. Seeing to the fact that Spot was used to such errands as a result to his background, he carried them out quickly and in an effective manner, which made him a favorite amongst his commanding officers.

He probably owed them his position right now. While all the foot soldiers marched underneath, Spot was perched on top of a tank watching the way the small rays of sun filtered through the enormous jungle trees. So far, they hadn't meet the opposing team but overhearing the Lieutenant, they were close. Shortly after, they ordered the pace to be picked up. Spot didn't want to think about what would happen if the enemy caught up to them.

Being the favorite also had other perks. He was fed more and got a better sleeping place. Nearly everyone resented him for it. Everyone but Racetrack. At boot camp Spot and Racetrack were given the same cabin and lessons. Their environment had forced them to become friends. Spot rather liked the short Italian- he was funny and had a loud mouth. Qualities like that would be highly appreciated back home.

When he could, Spot would try to sneak Racetrack on the tank when the driver wasn't looking. Most of the time they got away with it. Their conversations mainly consisted of things that happened back home. On the rare occasion, Racetrack would ask Spot if all the rumors about him and girls were true. Spot never gave him a definitive answer. It was fun to watch the smaller boy get frustrated.

The trip was supposed to take a week at the most but it ended up being two weeks. They had to stop for instructions from the base and let's not forget the rain. It rained the entire morning which made it impossible to move the tanks without them getting stuck. Everyone was wet, even the lieutenant. Spot wouldn't have minded the rain if it wasn't for the fact that it got his flier wet. Yes, it was the flier from city hall. He had kept it hidden in boot camp and halfway around the world, only Racetrack knew about it. Once, while they were waiting for a tank to be dug out, Spot went under a tree and stared at it for nearly half an hour before Racetrack noticed and walked over asking him what was so entrancing. At first, the Italian thought it was an adult image and he had told him so. Spot whacked him behind the head and then proceeded to call him names his non-existent mother would be ashamed of. The only reason as to why he had kept it so long was because he wanted a family like that. He didn't really want to be a father. He wanted to be the son but that was never going to happen so he would just settle for parenthood if that's what it took have a family.

His musing was interrupted by screams. Sitting up from where he was laying, Spot saw absolute chaos. Soldiers were running around like headless chickens. The officers were trying to get them into formation but it wasn't working, after all they were new recruits.

"Spot! Get down from there!" The order was followed by a sound he had only ever heard at boot camp.

Gun shots.

They whizzed past him and into the jungle. Spot slapped himself against the tank. His muscles were frozen in terror. Getting them to move was like trying to wake up from a nightmare. Closing his eyes shut, Spot willed his ears to stop listening and began crawling to the other side of the tank. When his hands felt the ledge, he forced his eyes to open. Sunlight blinded him.

It wasn't fair. The sun shouldn't be shining while men were dying.

Tilting his head lower. Spot saw the green of the jungle. Without another thought, he threw himself over, landing flat on his back. He could feel the plants being crushed underneath him.

Ignoring the pain in his back, Spot stood and reached for his gun. It was slung around his back, wrapped up in a green blanket to protect it from the rain. Unwrapping it, Spot cocked the gun. Not sure what to expect he pointed it around the tank that had already started firing. In boot camp there was lessons on ambushes but nothing they taught you could prepare you for what it was.

Words couldn't explain it. No movie, play, or story could get what war was really like.

There finally seemed to be some order. Flat against the ground, straight across, his battalion fired their weapons. Spot couldn't move or he would get in the way of the tank.

He could have looked away, he could have hidden behind the tank, closed his eyes and plugged his ears. Instead, he watched. He watched as the bullets lost and found targets. Not even the heavy machinery could disguise the screams from the men.

Spot had seen a dead body before. It was floating face down on the docks, police flocked around It and snapped pictures but it was nothing compared to this.

Nothing would ever compare to this. Ever.

When night arrived the fires seized. Who had won? Were there any winners at war?

Silence filled the jungle. The animals that usually filled the night had been scared off by the gunfire. Spot wished he could be one of them.

The solemn silence was interrupted by thunder. Dark roaring thunder, it was as if God was finally put up with us humans and this was how he was going to destroy them. Where was God? What kind of God would allow this to happen?

He had been asking that his entire life and he had no answers. When his parents disappeared, where was he? When he fell asleep with nothing in his stomach, where was he? When these men murdered each other, why didn't he stop it?

Rain hit his face and ran down his cheeks. The sky was crying for him, for Spot would not cry. Too many tears would be shed over this battle. He would save them for when he really needed it. Swallowing the knot in his throat, Spot forced his feet to stand. Cautiously he walked around the tank. His companions were starting to stand.

Sobs and pained words filled the night. Spot wasn't going to cry. He wouldn't cry. He couldn't.

Blinking the tears away, Spot began to look around for his friend.

Dark shapes stood against each other. Leaning for support. Someone had started roll call. A crowd began to form around him. Pushing against them, Spot looked for Racetrack. Where was Racetrack? Had God taken him too?

It was too dark to see anything. Maybe he should wait for Racetrack's name to be called and then he would know.

Turning around, Spot walked back to the tank where nearly everybody was.

Names were called. Some were answered with a salute while others were answered with silence or sobs.

When his name was called a weak and broken voice replaced his own.

It would be a long wait before the R's were called. But he didn't have to wait.

Short moments after his name was called, someone shouted it again.

"Spot? Where are ya? I swear if you're hiding from me…SPOT!"

Racetrack ran over to him as fast as he could, he could have made it over faster if he wasn't limping.

The Italian boy looked him up and down before forgetting himself and enveloping the former newsie in a hug.

Normally he would have pushed him away but right now he was just glad his friend was living. Trying to ignore the awful way Racetrack smelled, Spot hugged backed. They let each other go when they felt the looks of others.

Race coughed awkwardly and then talked.

"They came out of nowhere. Took out everyone in the back. Nearly got me."

Race took out a cigar and then put it back. Spot guessed he was scared if he light the thing, it would give away their position.

"Did you get to shoot?"

The Italian froze. Slower than anything he looked up. A void appeared in his eyes. It was a vastness that he would remember 'till the day he died.

"I shot…"

"I didn't. I had to stay behind the tank or risk getting in its way if I tried to join the squad."

The next emotion in his friend was something he had seen before but it was never really directed at him. Jealousy.

They stared at each other. Something had changed. They weren't on the same level anymore.

It was like clockwork. The rain would stop mid-day and the shots would start up again and then disappear when the sun set. Spot never fired his gun. He sat behind the tank and waited. He didn't look anymore. He lost a piece of himself every time he did.

Through all of the gun fire, screams, and carnage, Spot never regretted his decision and he hated himself for it. He should be praying for a way out. Wishing he could go back in time and change his decision.

War brought a different sort of emptiness. It was nothing. That was the thing- back home you had the nagging feeling to change. Here you couldn't change anything. It was like going into a cave that had a dead end but you kept going until you got to the end and when you got there all you did was sit and stare at the wall and you felt nothing.

Soon this would all change.

The lieutenant was tired of being a sitting duck so he came up with a plan. They spent the whole night preparing. The tanks were holding them behind so they would have to get rid of them and take a different route. At daybreak, when it was raining, the entire battalion took off. Some of the sergeants worried about exposure but no on one wanted to wait for the enemy to come and find them.

Their carrying weight was doubled. They were taking a shortcut through the deepest part of the jungle.

Spot never expected to have to walk through a swamp. The trip was short but an extremely difficult one. Sometimes the water would reach just below their chins. Other times it wouldn't rise past their soles.

Arriving at base was like reaching an earthly paradise. Two great trees acted as entrances and green bamboo stems encircled them in a fence. Behind that there was sand bags piled high and a pit was dug. It looked rather simplistic and Spot didn't trust it would hold against the North Vietnam soldiers.

They were given their rations and gone over the formation they would follow if they were attacked. No, not if, when they were attacked.

Spot slept near the infirmary hut. He could hear the moaning of the soldiers and the exhausted doctors sighing. All of the soldiers were supposed to get checked up at least once after they arrived but Spot didn't think anything was wrong with him.

He had been sweating a lot but he blamed it on the heat. Sure, he had anxiety, but that was because he was at war. His ankles were swollen although he had been walking a lot so he wrote it off as being that. His skin was naturally pale and he always wore his hat on so the sun rarely got to him. His breath went away during then night but that was when they were all piled together to sleep so nothing was abnormal.

Racetrack didn't agree one bit. They slept next to each other and each morning Racetrack would complain that his loud breathing and obnoxious coughing kept him up at night. So, after morning roll call, Racetrack dragged Spot into the infirmary and flirted with the nurse to get him an out of protocol checkup. Only wounded soldiers got to see the top doctor but Racetrack got the nurse to find the leading Doctor so he could take a look at Spot.

Spot didn't think anything was wrong with him. He coughed a lot. So what?

The Doctor seemed rather…relieved when the nurse explained what he had to do. Maybe he was just glad he could get a break from amputating limbs.

His relieved demeanor began to slip as the checkup progressed. With a worried glance, the Doctor excused himself.

Spot wasn't worried. It was probably something minor.

It wasn't something minor. When the Doctor returned he had a nurse with him. They drew blood and looked at his throat for what felt like ages. The nurse left the room and the Doctor asked Spot to take off his shirt. Confused, but not wanting to make the Doctors job harder than it already was, Spot obeyed. The Doctor told him to take a deep breath while he poked around his ribs with a stethoscope.

"Spot, I want you to be honest with me. Did you ever have a pulmonary infection?"

Thinking back to his childhood, Spot shook his no.

"All right. I know you don't have any heart problems because they wouldn't have let you in…I think your blood pressure got too high from all the stress and caused your valves to narrow."

He was diagnosed with something too long to remember. Still thinking that they were making a big deal out of nothing Spot tried to convince the Doctor that he would be fine but the Doctor would have none of it.

After talking to the Colonel that was in charge of the Camp, the Doctor had the nurses set up a separate tent for him to sleep in. The Doctor highly recommended walking around the base and letting the humid air try to clear up his lungs but it didn't work. Two days after he had been set up in his tent, he woke himself up in a coughing fit. Acid had been poured down his lungs while he slept and it was coming back up. It was as if his body was drowning him from the inside. Stumbling out of his hammock, Spot reached over for the lantern, turning the gas switch. All of the coughing and gurgling in his throat started to make him dizzy. No oxygen was getting in. The black corners in his eyesight were starting to get bigger. The room spun and his swollen feet weren't going to hold him much longer.

He sunk to his knees. Then he remembered, when he laid down, his lungs would revolt against him. Maybe if he was on his back his body would give him the force to spit out whatever was inside. Back flat against the ground, Spot continued to cough, and cough and cough. The fluid was finally in the upper part of his throat, leaning on his side Spot spit out the choking vile.

It was blood. With each cough that racked his body, blood would come out. His body still shook but it wasn't from the coughs. It was from the blood. It looked maroon. The red mixed with the brown dirt and terrified him. Bullets should have made his body bleed, not his lungs.

He spent the night coughing on the ground. Too scared to move. The cold earth helped cool down his body but sweat still poured out of him. His legs were so heavy. Why was it that his symptoms acted up when he could least handle them?

Most of his nights would consist of the same scenario. The nurse would find him lying there barely even conscious. Racetrack visited when he could but he still had drills and shooting practice and all the stuff Spot wanted to do.

The Doctor decided to be honest with Spot after the first painful week. He needed to do a surgery to suck the fluid out but he didn't have the equipment he needed. An oxygen mask was required to keep him alive longer although they had a limited supply of them and they were all being used up by the wounded soldiers in extensive care. In other words, Spot was going to die.

Surprisingly enough he still didn't regret coming. Spot refused to die because his own lungs were too incompetent to function. He didn't regret coming but he missed the concept that was Brooklyn. Brooklyn stood for strength. Its leaders were chosen not only because of their physical strength but because of their mental capacity to hold up against tough situations. He was not going to let Brooklyn down.

In the middle of the night, when only the night watch patrolled the camp, Spot cleaned and dressed himself as best he could. Clutching the family flier in his left hand as he walked out of the infirmary past the sleeping personnel.

He needed Racetrack, he would know where they kept what he was looking for. Biting back the coughs that wanted to come out, blood filled his mouth. He was used to being short on air. This wasn't going to be any more difficult than it already had been.

Stumbling past the sleeping soldiers, Spot found Racetrack. He was sleeping on his side and snoring lightly.

With a weak nudge, Spot woke up his friend.

The Italian groaned and groggily looked up. "Spot...What are you… Why… you need to get in to the infirmary."

Ignoring the Italian Spot spit out the blood in his mouth, aiming behind his shoulder.

He heard the shorter boy scramble up. "Is that blood?"

Spot nodded, and tilted his head to the left. Expecting him to follow.

He took him behind the infirmary. Talking had become like trying to pass a boulder through a needle hole.

Taking as deep as a breath as he could, Spot spoke. "I-I...need you to...get m-my...gun."

Clutching his stomach, Spot doubled over and began to gulp for air.

"What- why?"

Biting his trembling lip, Spot got his words across clearly this time. "I'm dying, Racetrack. They can't help me and I'm leaving this world on my own terms."

"But Spot… Why didn't you tell me?"

Spot couldn't see his friend's reaction. He was concentrating too hard on breathing.

"Look I-...Please don't let it end like this."

Maybe he felt bad for him, maybe the power he had back in Brooklyn had followed him here, or maybe Racetrack was going to go get the doctors.

A few minutes later, Racetrack came back, dragging his feet as he walked.

"W-what are you going to do?" His friend asked.

With a final smirk, Spot took the gun from his friend and looked up at the stars. They looked so pretty. Sunlight was overrated. If they didn't have sunlight they could look at the stars all the time.

Spot needed to get his next words out right. With the deepest gulp of air he would ever take he looked back at his friend and spoke.

"Life is tough, Racetrack. This place is funny. I traveled halfway around the world to die of a simple little cough and I didn't even get to shoot anyone. You have to make it out of here, for both of us. Don't you dare die."

Still smirking, Spot raised up the heavy revolver in his hand. With a final look at the perfect family in his hand, Spot placed the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.


End file.
